Chapter 11 Wren
Eleven
Wren
I pull off my glasses and half close my laptop with what I hope passes for nonchalance just as Lili strolls into the back
room the next morning, all breezy confidence, like she owns the place.
“Morning.”
Her outfit catches me off guard, and I hate that I notice it at all. She’s put-together, like always—some kind of green shorts
and a top with tiny cherry clusters all over it. Even her hair, loose and wavy, looks like it took effort.
Everything fits like it was made for her.
“Yeah, hey. Can you give me a minute? I need to finish something.” Before I can reopen my laptop, she spots the nametag I
set out for her on the table and grins at it like it’s made of gold instead of plastic.
“I guess this makes me official, huh?” But as she goes to pin it on, she hesitates. “Is there maybe a lanyard? I’d rather
not put a hole in my top.”
“No, but we do have polos,” I say, managing to keep a straight face even though the mental image of her trading that outfit for one of the McCleave’s uniforms is almost too much. “There should be extras in that storage closet.”
I lean back slightly and watch as she heads toward the door. Honestly, the polos are enough to make anyone reconsider their
life choices, but she’s the one who wanted another option.
I let out a breath as she digs through the box, listening to the rustle of fabric and the soft, distressed sounds she makes.
It takes her forever to settle on one, and even then, she doesn’t put it on. She holds it up—shapeless navy blue and way too
big for her—and looks at me.
“Rethinking putting a tiny hole in your own shirt?”
She looks genuinely conflicted. “Hey, how come you’re not wearing one?”
“I’m management.” Sort of.
“What about Tate?”
“Janitorial.” Then I add, “Bethany wears one, but if you’d rather help Tate clean bathrooms—”
“Nope, I’m good. I just want to wash this before I wear it,” she says, setting it aside on the couch. “Tomorrow, okay?”
We both know she’s not going to wear it, but maybe she’ll opt for something a little less distracting. If that’s even possible.
“That’s fine. I need you back here today anyway.”
Her eyes brighten. “Because we’re researching Kezia?”
The hope in her voice is enough to make me wince. For a second, I feel bad about disappointing her.
“No.” I shake my head. “Inventory. I need you to go through all the gift shop merchandise on wooden shelves, mark down what’s
running low and what we need to push. There’s a clipboard hanging by the door. Forms are self-explanatory.”
She sighs, but it’s more resigned than dramatic, like she saw it coming. Without arguing, she spins on her heel to grab the clipboard.
I wait until she’s fully distracted before reopening my laptop. The cursor on the blank document blinks at me, slow and accusatory.
Blink, blink, blink.
Shit, shit, shit.
The words won’t come.
In the background, Lili hums. It starts low, a soft undercurrent, but soon it grows into a murmur of lyrics. Then actual words.
It’s from a song I recognize, “Seaside” by the Kooks, and it pulls at the edges of my focus, dragging me back from the screen
until I’m aware of nothing but the hum of her voice and the too-quiet room around us.
I put my glasses back on and force my attention back to the laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The nonsense script
for Tate’s new “more engaging” tour isn’t going to write itself.
Finally, the rhythm of the keys drowns her out, and I manage a few paragraphs. It’s all crap, but at least it’s something.
“So, did you look through the photos I took yesterday?” she asks, breaking my fragile concentration. “I emailed them to you
last night,” she persists, her voice closer now. “I’m particularly happy with the last one.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. Anything to avoid this awful script. I click over to my inbox and open her email.
The photos are . . . good. There are the requested shots of Tate, Eryn, and plenty of smiling tourists. But then I get to
the last one, and I can’t help but laugh.
It’s a perfectly focused shot of her grass-scraped arm, hand, and one flipped-off finger.
She appears beside me, leaning in to scroll through the images herself. “What are you working on so intently anyway?”
Without thinking, I nudge her hand aside and close the email. The new tour script pops back up, filling the screen.
Her eyes dart to it and before I can shut the laptop, her curiosity shifts to confusion. “You’re rewriting the tour? Why?”
I’d have to physically shove her aside to keep her from scanning the rest of it, and at this point, I don’t care that much.
“This is for Tate,” she says, frowning, and then with an almost accusatory note in her voice adds, “and you took out almost
all of the historical facts.”
She looks at me again, her sea-glass eyes sharp and searching, close enough that I catch the darker green ring circling the
outside. “That was the best part of the tour.”
I hold her gaze longer than I should. “Yeah, well, you might be the only tourist who thinks that way.”
She breaks the connection effortlessly, turning back to the screen and scrolling farther down. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
I could argue. Tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But at this point, it’s easier to just show her.
Without a word, I reclaim the trackpad, open the latest reviews, and move back to let her read them for herself:
Pretty mermaid but the guide talked too much about boring history stuff. I’d rather listen to a Wikipedia article read out
loud. Captain was funny.
I came for mermaids, not a dissertation on 18th-century shipping regulations. My kid asked if we were being punished. Honestly, it felt like it.
They shouldn’t call it a mermaid tour. All you do is listen to some guy talk about history for an hour and catch a glimpse
of a mermaid at the end. Rip-off.
We thought this would be the highlight of our trip, but it was a mess. The live mermaid was the only good part, she looked
amazing and stayed in character the whole time. The guide, though? Yikes. I think I fell asleep. I don’t know why they don’t
have the captain do the whole thing. He was great.
I’m torn. The mermaid was incredible, and the kids were mesmerized. But the guide gave a full-on history lesson. He even had
a bit of a spat with a girl on our tour, which was uncomfortable. Would I do it again? Probably not.
She draws back when she’s done, quiet. “I guess this is what you guys were fighting about yesterday?”
I cut a glance toward her.
“I could see you from the parking lot,” she explains. “Seemed like things were a little tense.”
I hesitate. I didn’t plan on talking about this with anyone, especially not her. I’m still pissed at Tate for not telling
me the second my dad came to him. He said he didn’t take my dad’s idea seriously and wasn’t sure I’d care either way. Right
now, that doesn’t feel like a good enough excuse.
“It’s fine. We worked it out.” Maybe not entirely, but I know we will, because that’s what we always do. Plus, I don’t get to stay mad at him when I didn’t even bring it up with Eryn, even though she essentially did the same thing.
Besides, it’s not really either of them I’m truly mad at.
“The reviews are clear about what they want,” I say.
When I don’t say more than that, her gaze lingers on me, softening like she’s piecing something together. “It wasn’t your
choice, was it? Poseidon? He’s your dad, right?”
I haven’t explained that I’m not the one making decisions around here, but it sounds like she doesn’t need me to.
“You look a little like him,” she adds. “Just in the eyes.”
That’s not something I want to hear.
“Is there anyone else from your family that helps run the museum?”
I don’t want to go down this conversation trail. “Just us. Look, I really need to finish this, so can you just—” I gesture
toward the shelves she’s supposed to be inventorying.
She doesn’t move. “I’m sorry for arguing with you on my tour. I wasn’t thinking about it impacting someone else’s experience
so much that they’d leave a review about it. I was just trying to distract my stomach at first, then sort of test you, you
know?”
“Glad I passed.” My tone is flat, but the corner of her mouth tugs up.
“Oh, you definitely did,” she says. “I didn’t expect to like any of my time on that boat, but arguing with you was kind of
fun.” She leans her head from side to side. “All things considering.”
I’m not going to say it to her, but I can admit to myself now that I didn’t hate having someone onboard who knew about the
1698 Act of Grace either. Even if she tried to misapply it.
“But I’m still sorry,” she says again, glancing at the laptop.
“One review isn’t the problem. Most people taking a boat ride to see a mermaid don’t care about Abram Quary or Dorcas Honorable.”
She makes a face. “They should, but fine, okay, I take your point.” Then, more carefully, she adds, “But you know the answer
doesn’t have to be him instead of you, right?” She turns fully, leaning back on the desk, facing me directly now. “It doesn’t
even have to be all fluff over facts. Why not work on something that brings in more mermaid lore but weaves in entertaining
historical stories too?”
“It’s a little late for that,” I say.
“Because of what your dad wants? What if we give him a revised version first and then maybe work on amping up your delivery?
Let him see you try out some new material before he makes you hand the tour over to Tate?”
I don’t miss the way she says we. “Amping up my delivery?”
She ignores the question. “I’m just saying, maybe we could get him to give you another shot before changing everything.”
My laugh is bitter, sharp. “We aren’t going to do anything.”
She half rolls her eyes. “Fine, but have you tried? I mean, really tried? Because I think you care about this more than you’re
letting on.”
My irritation flares. “My dad and I don’t work like that.”
“It sounds like you don’t work like that.” She pushes off the desk, crossing her arms. “How do you know he won’t change his mind? Just because
it’s hard doesn’t mean you don’t try.”
I slam the laptop shut with more force than I mean to. “And what would you know about hard, Tourist Girl? What have you ever
done that wasn’t easy?”
“Easy?” Her voice cuts through mine, sharp and incredulous. “Are you kidding me? It took my dad dying to get my mom to let
me come back here.”
I freeze.
Her breath is uneven, her cheeks flushed. “She swore that she would never set foot on this island again after the divorce
because, in her mind, he chose his past here over our present there. I spent months trying to convince her to let me have
one more summer in a place that she hates almost more than I love. You have no idea how hard it was, but I did it because
there wasn’t another option for me. I wasn’t going to stop.”
Her voice catches on the last word, emotion pressing against it. I suddenly have a hard time not staring.
“Okay, I shouldn’t have said that,” I say, quieter now. “But this is my whole life here. Don’t you think I would’ve taken
the chance to change things around here by now if I could?”
Her answer is immediate. “That’s the difference, Wren. You’re waiting for opportunities. I’m telling you to create them.”
Before I can argue, she flips open the laptop, starts a fresh document, and looks at me expectantly, her fingers hovering
over the keyboard.
“Not enough mermaid details—easy fix. Dry historical facts—just about the delivery.” She lifts her chin. “Between the two
of us, we can fix this. So stop being a baby and help me write the best damn mermaid and history tour possible.”
Her determination is a physical force, pressing into the space between us. My irritation spikes, but somehow, I can’t look
away from the blank document.
It’s not that I believe this will change anything.
But something about her confidence makes it impossible to say no.